Batman: CW
by chrisg1998
Summary: A Batman series set in the CW DC universe [So Arrow, The Flash]. Crossover with Arrow and the Flash in later chapters. In 2013, after 8 years travelling overseas, Bruce Wayne, orphan billionaire and playboy, returns home to Gotham City to start a crusade to rid his city of the criminal element which took his parents lives when he was 12 years old.


_**Chapter 1: The Return**_

8 Years.

That's how long it's been.

Eight Long years, since I set foot in this place. In Gotham City.

I can feel emotions inside of me which I have not felt in almost a decade, stir inside of me as I step off the plane and onto the tarmac, my feet making a small thud as I hit the ground;

First i feel the fear, that familiar sense of dread which, even as a mere boy, accompanied me as I set off to into the city, that feeling that everything was not right in this place, that there was something off, that something was wrong. As long as I could remember, I have always had that feeling of weariness and unease in this city. My father even told me once that I hated coming into Gotham so much when I was a baby that I would cry and scream and shout for my mother to take us back home, to the Manor. Father said it was like I had a sixth sense; as if I could tell that Gotham was not a safe place. He used to joke that it was the only time I ever showed fear as a baby. He would say "Bruce you would climb 12 foot trees, you would try and steal my car keys to take a spin on the porches', and you were even brave enough to try your mothers cooking, but the moment we took you to town, you'd curl up in your seat and howl and cry like it was the most terrifying thing in the world"

I allow myself a small smile, remembering fond memories of my mother when she tried to cook as I walk down the tarmac towards the Airport entrance: She was truly awful, everything was always burnt, or frozen, or _raw_, but I always ate what she gave me. I could not say no when she looked at me, that pleading, why-don't-you-try look on her face always making me take a plate, against my better judgement. Hmm, Father never had such problems. He seemed to always come down with the flu when my mother wanted to cook something, and then would suddenly become free of it once the food was clear.

When I finally reach the airport entrance, a stewardess flashing me a smile which is part professional, part seductive, all friendly, I feel another emotion. Maybe not an emotion so much as a feeling. A sense. Of Clarity. Of Purpose. I have spent eight years away from this city for a reason; I have spent most of my life, training myself, my body, my mind, my spirit, for a purpose: And now I am back, to fulfill that purpose. To put what I have learnt to the test; to see if I have trained my mind, body and spirit enough to fulfill a promise I made on the night everything changed. To see if I can become what I promised I would become. A symbol.

Of Justice.

Of Order.

Of _Vengeance._

Then as I try and hold back a flood of memories which I have tried to bury inside of me, which threaten to overwhelm me as I walk towards the immigration desk, the final legal hurdle in my return from 8 years of self-imposed exile from this city, I feel a third emotion: Rage.

Rage against what has happened to me, the tragedy which has defined my life for 18 years.

Rage at what happened to my parents, how their lives were taken so suddenly and so unjustly from this world, all because of one man with a gun.

Rage at what has happened to countless sons and daughters and parents, and brothers and sisters, and friends and lovers, who have lost a loved one, or have lost their own lives in this damned town.

I feel rage for all of those who have suffered tragedy like me. Who have suffered the heartache. The anger. The sense of fear.

Of hopelessness.

It's the rage that I try to hold on to the most. I push back my dark memories away with the rage, as I always have. I let the rage consume my fear. I let it consume everything other than my sense of purpose.

It will be my rage which will be my ultimate weapon against the darkness in this city.

My Shield.

My Sword.

But my purpose, shall be my eyes and ears, which will lead through the darkness, remind me of what I have lost and what countless others have lost as well in this city, when I am in doubt of what I am doing, or if what I am doing is right.

I will remember the last words my Mother spoke to me as she lay dying at my father's side on that dirty grey sidewalk, blood pouring out of her stomach, painting the pavement red even as my small, child hands desperately tried to stop the bleeding. I remember how she took my hands in her hers, and gave me one more smile, and said "It's okay Baby. It's okay. It's going to be okay." And I will remember the look of peace, of tranquillity, in my mother's eyes as she left this world.

And I will do everything I can to ensure no more twelve year children will ever have to see that look in their parents' eyes as they fade away, as a result of a bullet, a knife, a bomb or a beating.

I don't cry, though my heart tells me I should. My mind tells me otherwise: It tells me to keep a clear head. Ito stay focused. To get out of this airport and begin what I came here to do.

I take a deep breath as I walk up to the immigration desk, manned by a short, attractive looking woman with deep brown skin with short, manicured hands, slightly wrinkled, and with dark brown hair with flecks of white, and a name tag saying _Tanya Fox, Airport Immigration Officer_ on her uniform. She looks up, gives me the usual polite smile, which morphs into a warm and appreciative one as she sees what I look like.

Though I care little about what people thought of my personal appearance, I knew that I was attractive to members of the opposite {and many a time, the same} sex, and like my strength, my skills in combat, in deduction and a hundred other fields, I used my looks as a weapon; to charm those around me, to make them trust me, like me. To disarm them and make them think I was and am nothing more than a rich playboy. Even something as trivial as looks could be utilized, as a useful tool, if used by a person who knew how to. And even something small like a smile and a wink was like a bullet fired out of a gun if you knew how to pull the trigger.

I return a small smile of my own as I pass the boarding pass to her first. As she looks over the flight number and name, I can tell from the small breath she takes in that she is suddenly resisting the urge to blush and look away as she realizes who exactly she has suddenly smiled at.

Tanya recovers herself nicely, though I can see her skin is slightly darker than before, the blush just barely obvious, and she says "Ah, your, um…. You're the guy on the news. Your-" her voice is quite high pitched, almost piercing, and her accent is Local, probably from the East End. I am not sure whether or not it is her natural pitch or if she is merely nervous, though I suspect the latter.

I give a small chuckle, and another smile, this one with a little warmth and charm in it. The blush on Tanya's face becomes even more apparent, so that now it's impossible not to see it. "Yes I am."

Tanya gives out a nervous giggle of her own, before trying [and failing] to compose herself again. "Wow, this is…. Wow." Her blush becomes, if possible, even more obvious, and I resist the urge to chuckle again. "I mean, I knew, I mean everyone knew you were coming in today, but I never thought you would be at my desk." Her blush now makes her look almost like a strawberry.

I try [and fail] to not chuckle at the blush on her face, and she puts her head down, embarrassed. "I guess today is just my lucky day Tanya."

She looks up at me, a puzzled look on her face. "How do you know my name?"

I smile as I point at the small name tag on her shirt. "The name-tag sorta gave it away."

She looks down. "Oh, right…." I can swear she's resisting the urge to put her head and cover her blush now. Instead she keeps her head up and takes the passport from my outstretched hand. She gives me another smile before her expression turns serious and she says "Anything to declare Mr Wayne?"

"No. And please, call me Bruce. Mr Wayne was my father."

She nods as she stamps my passport, and as she passes it back to me, our fingers briefly touch and I feel something. A feeling. Like an electrical current passing through my arm. She seemed to feel it to, because she holds onto my outstretched fingers for half a second longer then necessary before pulling away, embarrassed again. "I'm sorry Mr Wayne. I mean Bruce Wayne. I mean….." She now covers her reddened face with her hand, and I can swear I can see her lips saying wordlessly the word, _idiot_, over and over again.

Now I'm really trying not to laugh. "Hey no problem. I'm used to girls touching me."

It takes me a split-second [and her half-amused, half-embarrassed expression] to realize my mistake. Now it's my turn to blush. "Wait, no, that came out wrong. What I meant was um….. uh…."

She gives me a look. I avert my eyes. Finally, I clear my throat and say "Uh, I'd better-"

Tanya nods, her professionalism back in full swing. "Right." She smiles at me one more time. "Well, welcome back to Gotham City Mr… Bruce."

I grin back. "It's good to be back."


End file.
